


Coincidence or Fate or Something Like It

by EtLaBete



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canon Divergence - Iron Man 2, Frostiron Fest 2014, M/M, Palladium Poisoning, Pre-Avengers (2012), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-28
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-03 22:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2890943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtLaBete/pseuds/EtLaBete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The palladium poisoning is reaching critical mass, and in a last ditch effort, Tony looks to God for help. A god appears, just not the one he was expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coincidence or Fate or Something Like It

**Author's Note:**

> This is my submission to the 2014 FrostIron Fest and is gifted to [fantalaimon](http://fantalaimon.tumblr.com)! My prompt was: "Tony may be a skeptic, but praying in desperate times can’t exactly hurt anything, can it? Loki happens to hear."
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you enjoy it, fantalaimon, though it may not be exactly what you were looking for. My fics tend to run off on their own despite my best intentions. :)

He shouldn’t have put on the suit. 

The metal scrapes against the brick wall behind Tony as he sinks down towards the snow-covered gravel. He feels heavy, and he doesn’t think it’s just the suit weighing him down. His face and hands are cold, the faceplate and gauntlets discarded after his botched landing, but his chest is burning beneath the layers of titanium alloy and black mesh bodysuit, like small fire ants are marching through his veins and burrowing into his heart.

Tony leans his head back and stares up. It’s dark, and the snowflakes are catching the artificial lamp light as they flutter down. It makes them look like ash and sparks of flame, and it comforts him, somehow, like he’s in his workshop.

Except he isn’t. He crash-landed into some random alley after the energy it took to man the suit all but pumped the palladium into his veins full-blast and caused him to black out. He’s awake now, awake and weak, and dizzy, and he feels like he might throw up. Especially after trying to stand. That didn’t go well. Most importantly, though, he isn’t sure how he’s going to get home. It’s not fatal, not yet, but he’s not stable enough to try piloting the suit back to the tower. 

“Jarvis,” he rasps, “levels.”

“Eighty-six percent, sir,” Jarvis states, concerned. “Should I call Ms. Potts or Colonel Rhodes?”

“No,” Tony sputters out hurriedly. “Don’t call them.” 

Jarvis doesn’t reply. Tony isn’t sure if it’s because the AI senses his fear and knows how badly he handles these kinds of things or if he utterly disapproves, but the silence makes Tony feel comforted and worse at the same time. 

Drudging up the last of his strength and needing to distract himself from the dread burrowing a hole in his stomach, he struggles to peel the chest plate back. His hands shake and his nails catch painfully in the seams of the suit, but he manages to pry it off. With a strangled gasp, he falls back against the wall and closes his eyes. The cool winter air soothes the burning. He revels in it, drowns in it, until it starts to creep back up, tickling at first before his skin is on fire once again. 

“Fuck,” he hisses, and after a lot more cursing and using the edge of his gauntlet, he tears the chest of the bodysuit open so it’s icy air on skin. 

Tony doesn’t even need to look down. He knows what it’s going to look like. The skin around the arc reactor is red and inflamed, and the black latticework of palladium toxicity fans out like a spider’s web. He can feel the sting all the way up his neck and in his shoulders, even creeping over his jawline.

He shouldn’t have put on the suit. He shouldn’t have, and he did it anyway because he’s an idiot.

“I shouldn’t have put on the suit,” he says out loud to the rats that scurry along the opposite wall and laughs. 

An ambulance wails in the distance in response, but it isn’t coming for him, and the sound fades until Tony’s alone again. He thinks of Pepper, who he’s managed to push away spectacularly well. He thinks of Rhodey, too, Rhodey who deals with his shit and always comes back. He thinks about how he’s never going to see them again if he doesn’t get himself out of this alley because he’s too stubborn to ask for help and too proud to let them see that he self-destructed again. And hell, it was bad enough the first time the near death thing happened when he was used as a dartboard for an IED. He almost lost the chance to make up for the fact that he’s a selfish ass, but he got a second chance. Yinssen didn’t sacrifice his life to watch Tony crash and burn a second time.

Except Tony’s done just that, and he hates himself for it.

“God,” he rasps, pressing a hand to his chest and _fuck fuck fuck_ the skin is like molten lava it’s so hot. He swallows the fear down, gulps until it’s abated, and repeats, “God, I don’t talk to you often, but if you could magic this shit back to better, or like, whisk me back to my tower, that would be awesome.”

He looks up. He isn’t sure what miracles look like. The sky is dark and muted, an expanse of chalky clouds, and the snow falls more heavily, big, fat flakes raining down on Tony’s head. 

He waits, and nothing happens. 

“You son of a bitch,” he wheezes, and tries to push himself up, but he only slips and crashes back into the wall. “I even asked nicely!”

He’s about to suck it up and power up the suit, even though getting back to the tower that way would make his levels sky rocket and he’d probably black out again and fall to his death, when the wall at the end of the alley starts to quiver. Or rather, the air starts to quiver, and then it just splits open.

And a man stumbles out and lands on one knee with a grunt. The hole closes behind him. 

Now, Tony’s seen a lot of things. He’s created a lot of the things the world isn’t ready for. He likes those kinds of things.

He is not sure he’s ready for this one, though. 

The man remains kneeling for a few moments, body heaving as he breathes in. Tony can’t get a good read on him until he stands, and then he’s really not sure he’s ready for this. The man is tall, thin, and dressed in green and black leather with gold glinting at his throat and wrists like some medieval knight. His dark hair messily halos an unnaturally pale, angular face, and his eyes— they fucking _glow_ , and they’re as blue as his arc reactor. 

He’s got a spear, too. A fucking spear. And that’s also glowing. 

The man looks around, lips twisted into a frown. “Of all the blasted places,” he murmurs, taking a few steps forward. And then he spots Tony.

They stare at each other for several painfully long seconds, and Tony’s heart suddenly remembers it still works and starts banging around behind the arc reactor like a bat out of hell. Something about the man makes his mind scream _run,_ but his body isn’t working so he just sits, and stares, and thinks that if he’s going to die, if he’s going to get murdered by some weird psychopath, it would be way better than palladium poisoning. At least Pepper won’t be able to blame him for being murdered. Maybe. She gets creative when she’s upset. 

The man, however, doesn’t seem nearly as affected. His startled scowl blooms into a devious smile—it reminds Tony a lot of his PR smile, fake and one-hundred percent coping mechanism— and he says silkily, “And who, pray tell, might you be?”

This would probably be a good time to fire up the suit and risk killing himself, but instead Tony says, “Leather was an interesting choice.”

The man cocks his head to the side, studying Tony. Or deciding how to dismember him. Tony finds that those expressions look very, very similar. 

“I mean,” Tony continues, because idiot, “it’s kind of cold. There are much better options.” 

“The cold does not bother me,” the man replies scathingly, his smile faltering slightly. 

Tony nods and gestures at his torn bodysuit. “Me, either. Feels kind of nice, actually.”

They stare at each other for a few more seconds, and then the man takes a few more steps forward, snow crunching beneath his leather boots. “You do not fear me?”

“Not yet. Well, maybe a little. I mean, you did just kind of walk out of a wall, and you’ve got a big, pointy stick.” Tony shrugs. “I’m not sure what to think, though. When I asked for God, I expected white beard, long, flowing robes.”

Something about that makes the man’s face darken. He licks his lips and asks lowly, “What is your name, Midgardian?”

“I’m known as Iron Man,” Tony says because, again, idiot, but at least he isn’t idiot enough to use his real name. As if that matters since everyone knows he’s Iron Man. “Also, Mid-whatian?”

“Iron, you say.” The man crouches down when he’s a few feet away from Tony and points the scepter towards him. He smirks. “That looks very much like flesh and bone to me.” 

“The suit,” Tony begins, but the suit isn’t technically made of iron, so he just shrugs. “Eh, forget it. Flesh and bone. And some toxic particles, but who’s counting.”

The man settles back on his heels and rests the scepter across his knees. He’s still stiff-bodied, but some of the tension relaxes. Tony studies him, traces the lines of the man’s face, the buckles on his clothing, the way his hair, unkempt and unruly, falls over his shoulders and collects snowflakes. Between the glow of the scepter and the glow of Tony’s reactor, he looks like a ghost.

 “You seem to be troubled, Man of Iron,” the man says quietly, and he’s studying Tony, too, eyes tracing lines and panels and the reactor. 

Tony scoffs because that’s how he tackles nervousness, but all the fiery pain running across his chest suddenly feels doused by a hefty dose of ice-cold vulnerability. “You noticed? Troubled, in trouble, all of the above. I kind of attract trouble.” 

“So it would seem. I am here, and you appear to be indisposed of.” The man gestures at the palladium veining, his eyes following each line before tracing back to the core of the problem again and again. “What sickness do you suffer from? And what is the device in your chest?”

“All questions and no answers,” Tony tsks, discomfort mounting. The man’s a coyote, except Tony doesn’t think he’d wait for someone else to make the kill before he scavenges. A wolf, then. He’s a goddamned wolf, and Tony’s the grandma, or Little Red Riding Hood, or something. “I play, you play. Who are you? Where did you come from? You are obviously not the god I’m thinking of.”

The dark expression falls over the man’s face again and his grip on the scepter tightens. “You dare try to barter with me?”

Tony shrugs, metal grating against the brick behind him. “I can’t really decide if it’s a dare or not since I don’t know you.”

“I am a god,” the man sneers.

Tony studies the unearthly hue of the man’s eyes, the bearing of his chin, the way the staff’s glow pulses along to the rhythm of the pulse in his neck, and Tony doesn’t doubt him. Just his fucking luck. 

“Well, then,” he says and struggles to stand. The suit is like lead and he’s feeling pretty weak still, but he doesn’t want to show any more weakness than necessary in front of tall, dark, and godly. Deadly. Oddly attractive. So many adjectives to choose from. “What’s your name? Or do gods have names?”

The man stares up at him, still crouching even though Tony’s finally made it to his feet and is leaning against the wall so his dizziness isn’t completely obvious. He looks conflicted, half curious and half irritated, but he answers. “I am Loki of Asgard.”

Tony’s mouth falls open a little bit, and then he actually laughs. “Loki?” he repeats and presses a hand to his chest because the laughter is making pain reverberate through every nerve ending even remotely close to the arc reactor. “Isn’t he some Viking god?”

“I am the god of Mischief,” the man supplies, nostrils flaring. 

Tony snorts. “Why do I feel like you’re the last god I should have summoned if I needed help, then?” 

The man blinks. “You have no sense of self preservation.”

“Uh, hello,” Tony says and raps his knuckles against the suit. “I’m a man in a tin box that flies. Of course I don’t.”

The man—Loki— stands and walks forward until he’s less than a foot away from Tony. He tall, a lot taller than Tony, and he has to angle his head down to meet the short man’s eyes. “Can a man in such dire need of aid really be so particular about what god deigns to answer his call?” he asks lowly. 

Tony raises his brows. “I’m thinking you didn’t hear me say anything and this is all a coincidence.”

Loki hums thoughtfully for a moment. “Ah, but are there truly coincidences, or are we all relegated to fate?” 

“I make my own fate.”

“So I see,” Loki murmurs, and he reaches out again, but this time the hesitation is gone as skin meets skin. 

His hand is deliciously cold against Tony’s fever-heated skin. Tony hisses out a breath and tears his gaze away from Loki’s so he can watch the god touch him. It’s oddly gentle and oddly intimate, and Tony isn’t really sure what the hell is happening. That is, until Loki’s fingertip glows green, and then Tony gasps and jerks as something tingly flares through his chest. He slaps the man’s hand away and presses back into the wall, reactively covering the arc reactor with splay fingers. “What the fuck was that?” he hisses. 

“Your device poisons you,” Loki says. “It is in your blood. Is that why you do not power your machine? Does it fuel the poison?”

“Okay, we’re done.” Tony turns and starts to walk away, but the alley blurs almost immediately, brick and snow and the glare of street lamps coalescing until he can’t tell the ground from the sky and starts to tip over. 

Loki grabs his arm and steadies him. “You are a fool.”

“Thanks for clarifying,” Tony grunts. 

“I am somewhat impressed, however,” Loki says and presses Tony back against the wall. He touches the arc reactor again, gently, eyes narrowing. “I did not expect to see such capability on a realm as base as Midgard.”

“It's mostly just me, and yeah, I’m pretty awesome.” 

“How would you fare,  I wonder,” Loki murmurs as if he didn't hear him, the glow in the god's eyes fading the slightest bit until a bright green shines through. “Will you be able to stop the war that comes? I had thought not, but perhaps I am mistaken.”

“Wait, what?” Tony asks, blinking the dizziness away and staring up into the man’s face. “War? What war?”

“All in due time, Man of Iron.” Loki grins. “Fate may indeed be the orchestrator this day.”

“Seriously, let’s try this again. What war?”

Loki opens his mouth, but before he can speak, a helicopter flies low overhead. Loki steps back and looks up, eyes flashing and lips raising like a dog with its hackles raised. 

“It appears this is where we bid each other farewell, Man of Iron,” he states. It’s punctuated by the squealing of tires at the mouth of the alley. “I pray you find a way to heal yourself. It would be a shame if this meeting was all for naught.” 

Tony looks up and sees the SHIELD logo painted on the side of the helicopter. “Shit,” he hisses, then looks back at Loki. “What the hell are you even talking about? Tell me!”

Loki hits the butt of the scepter against the ground and a rip tears in the wall nearby, blue light irradiating from it. He walks towards it, leather coat flowing behind him like a mantle. He stops to glance at Tony, and his eyes are blue again. “We will meet again," he says, grinning like a shark, then he steps into the tear. It swallows him and seals before Tony can even blink. As if on cue, he’s swarmed by agents in black kevlar with their guns pointed.

Tony holds up his hands and tries to pretend they aren’t shaking. “I surrender. Take me to your leader.”

The men just stand and point. 

“Mr. Stark, fancy meeting you here. I wish I could say I was surprised, but you seem to get involved in a lot of things you shouldn't.”

A man with an eyepatch and a long, black trench coat steps out from behind the troops. With a wave of his hand, all the men stand down, and Tony sags against the wall, arms falling to his side. “No idea what you mean. I’m just taking a breather. ” 

“Oh, I can see that,” the man replies with a smirk. “That doesn’t look too good. You’re lucky we found you even though we weren’t looking for you, Mr. Stark.”

“More importantly, and I've been thinking about this for a while, should I call you Director? Or do you prefer something a bit more flashy? The Fast and the Director Furious has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?”

“Sir, the perimeter is secure.”

Tony stares over the Director’s shoulder at the bodysuit-clad redhead who’s been working for him for months. Or so he thought. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

“I think you’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Agent Natasha Romanov,” the Director supplies.

“You’re fired,” Tony deadpans after staring at her, open-mouthed, for a few seconds. 

“That isn’t up to you,” Natasha says with a smirk and quirked brow. “I was assigned to you by SHIELD when you started to show signs of illness.”

Tony wants to be surprised, or angry, mostly at himself for not piecing it together, but he doesn’t have the energy. “I would have preferred a nurse’s costume. This one's good too, though. How do you even get into that thing? Do you need to use body butter?” 

“I am very interested, Mr. Stark, in knowing what happened here to cause energy readings off the damn charts,” the Director says. “We had some similar readings in New Mexico recently. I’m sure you heard of them.”

“I’m not sure— OW.” Tony presses his hand to his neck, eyes wide. “What the hell are you doing?”

Agent Romanov smiles as she pulls the syringe back that she just jabbed into him. 

“You should be feeling better,” the Director says. “Enough to talk. It's time to debrief, Mr. Stark.” 

Tony isn’t listening. He feels heat spread through his neck, and then he feels lighter than he’s felt in days. He looks down at his chest. The palladium veining recedes and the pain fades.

“JARVIS, come back online,” Tony croaks. 

His suit powers up. “Glad to be back, Sir,” JARVIS states.

“Levels.”

“Forty-seven percent.” 

Tony looks up at the Director. “What is this? What did you give me?”

“Let’s call it a band-aid until you fix the mess you’ve got yourself into. And until you tell me what I need to know about what happened in this alley. Some band-aids are conditional, after all.”

Tony lets Agent Romanov steer him towards the street where a line of black SUVs and more agents are waiting, but he looks back at the alley. Agents are fanning out with tech and tools to study the area, but Tony still spots the bootprints left by his godly visitor. He’s never believed in fate, at least not the pre-orchestrated kind. He likes to make his own luck just like he likes to make his own everything. He can’t help but wonder, though, what would have happened if tall, dark, and scary hadn’t appeared. SHIELD was prepared for his palladium problem already, thanks to Agent Romanov and her super-spy skills, but they didn’t come for him. They came to check out the energy readings, and Tony just happened to be there.

Just. Happened. To be there. 

“Fate, huh,” he mutters to himself. 

If he sees Loki again, he might become a believer. 


End file.
